Pusher Love Girl
by i-effed-it-all-up
Summary: "The lines of her jaw, the tumble of hair that she's constantly trying to coax behind her ear. The mole just below her collar bones. It all fascinates you to no end and you'd really rather be looking at her beneath the lens of a microscope than at the stages of mitosis." / oneshot


You've never seen a diamond in the flesh, but if you did you think it'd look a lot like Delphine Cormier.

Okay, so you're being a bit cheesy, but you're definitely not exaggerating. The girl is fine. She sits two seats to the right and three seats up, and you spend most of class staring at her hair. How does it do that?

And those legs, whew. They go on for miles. It doesn't help that she prefers skirts. Damn.

The teacher starts handing back your tests from last week. She's going to announce who set the curve, just like every other week, and, just like every other week, your name will follow.

You always set the curve, without even trying. You just sort of…. Absorb everything. You hardly ever listen in class, since you generally read the textbooks and learn everything from that. You love it. Being able to control your environment, even in this small way, gives you a sense of comfort.

But then the teacher makes the announcement.

"Delphine?" The blonde head shoots up from where she was studying her notebook. "You set the curve. Excellent work."

She looks genuinely surprised and grins from ear to ear.

You can't find it in you to be mad.

Good lord, I'm in trouble, you think.

—

You watch her leave class – and by watch you mean watch. You can't help it. She's making you crazy.

As she gathers her things and saunters out of class (that swagger those legs that ass) you make up your mind.

You're going in.

You spot her at her locker, exchanging her books. You take a deep breath.

"Hey, uh. Delphine, right? The foreign exchange student?"

She turns at her name. You run nervous hands through your wildly curling brown hair.

"Hello," she says with a smile, and her voice melts into you, relaxing you. Heating you up. That accent. Hot damn.

"Are you all right?" she asks when you don't say anything else. You blink and feel your neck going red. Jesus fuckin' Christ. Smooth, Niehaus. A real lady killer.

"Gah, sorry. Sorry. I heh, I got distracted," you fumble awkwardly, waving your hands in habitual nervousness. "I'm ah, Cosima."

"Enchantee, Cosima," she says, offering a hand to shake and a smile to quake before.

"Uh… yea. E-enchantee," you squeak.

Holy shit.

—

"But how do you get such good grades? I hardly ever see you study."

You take off your glasses and rub your eyes. Delphine looks at you curiously from her place stretched out on your bed.

"I just genuinely like learning," you say. "I read the textbook once and it all just…. Sticks."

"Ahh. So you are a genius," she says with a teasing smile and a knowing nod, opening her book again.

"Uh, no. No," you say, waving a hand in the air from your supine position on the floor. "I'm not. Learning just comes naturally for me."

"I would say that makes you a genius, yes?" She peeks at you over her book; the light from your ceiling fan shows the laughter in them.

"Flattery will get you nowhere, Cormier," you tease, lifting yourself into a sitting position.

"No?" she asks, and her eyes say make out with me right now but then she goes back to her book and you aren't sure how to proceed.

This whole experiment is new to you.

—

"You are sure we won't be caught?"

"Oh my God, no," you laugh, pulling out the lighter you stole from your dad. "Relax, geez. We're fine. I told you, I've been doing this since my freshman year."

"A professional," she admires as you light a joint. "Reassuring."

"Yea. No one comes near here." 'Here' being out by the dumpsters.

"This is not something I have done before," she admits nervously.

"Oh, a virgin," you say. She looks confused.

"Um, I mean a – a smoking virgin, not a – a – oh, wow." Wow. How much more awkward can you be?

Suddenly, she bursts out laughing. "You are a silly girl," she tells you, and you sigh in relief.

"Yea," you mumble. "Silly. That's me." You take a longer drag than usual because "silly" is not the word you'd want this… this French goddess to use when describing you.

You offer her the joint. She hesitates so you say "You don't, like, have to. Don't feel obligated or whatever."

"No," she insists, "I want to. You have to be open to new experiences, right?" She looks you dead in the eye when she says this, and the look you see in her eyes makes you wonder if you're still talking about smoking weed.

She takes the offered joint, parting her lips delicately to allow it entry. You swallow hard and try not to notice the way her neck muscles contract when she inhales.

Then she's coughing and laughing. She passes you the joint. "That was… mm, that was interesting."

"Yea," you say, taking the joint with numb fingers. You can't take your eyes off her.

Interesting.

—

You fall behind in your classes (and by that you mean you got an A- on your last test instead of an A) because you'd rather be studying Delphine.

The lines of her jaw, the tumble of hair that she's constantly trying to coax behind her ear. The mole just below her collar bones. It all fascinates you to no end and you'd really rather be looking at her beneath the lens of a microscope than at the stages of mitosis.

In Zoology you dissect frogs. When the teacher asks you to pick partners, you and she find each other immediately. Almost like it's natural.

You're like magnets.

When everyone else in the class is moaning about animal's rights and squeamishness, the two of you are totally absorbed in your assignment. You watch her fingers, the way they hold the instruments. The way they make perfect lines on the frog's belly.

So deft. So skilled.

Only you would be having these thoughts while watching the dissection of a frog.

"Whoa, that's totally awesome," you say when she finally opens up the frog to reveal its insides.

"Isn't it?" she asks eagerly. You both throw yourselves into the assignment because you're both totally fascinated.

"You know," she says later as you're cleaning up the mess, "it's nice to… to make a friend in the 'brave new world,' as they say. It's nice to have someone who… who gets it. Who gets… me." She looks at you, and you can tell she's just bared her soul to you.

So you say what comes naturally to you.

"Yea, ditto. Obvs."

—

You kiss her out by the dumpsters.

You can tell you've made a mistake the instant you put your mouth on hers. She freezes, and her lips don't move against yours. In fact, she doesn't react at all.

Your heart leaps to your throat. Oh god, please no.

"Delphine,"you gasp, pulling away. "I'm so sorry, I- I don't know what came over me. Um, I-"

"It's…. okay," she says softly, leaning down to grab her backpack. You watch her with wide, scared eyes.

"Really," she says. "Do not worry. I have to get home."

"Wait, Delphine-" but she's gone.

You lift your glasses and squeeze your eyes shut, pinching the bridge of your nose to try and stop the tears before they come.

It doesn't work.

—

You're lying on your bedroom floor with a book over your face, wallowing in self-pity when the door opens abruptly. You snap to attention, lifting the book and pulling yourself into a sitting position. You are surprised by what you find.

Delphine stands in the doorway, looking sheepish. "Your mother let me in," she says softly by way of explanation.

"Delphine," you mumble before leaping to your feet. "Look, I am… so sorry."

"No," she says. "No, I'm sorry. I just panicked. You see, I've never… liked a girl… before. But I have also never met a girl like you before. A girl who makes me question everything. And I know that in sexuality, we all land somewhere on a… a rainbow." She squints and you can tell she knows she's used the wrong word. A giggle sputters from you.

"Spectrum," you provide. "The word you're looking for is spectrum."

She smiles. "Yes, spectrum. And I think you've helped me figure out where I fit on that spectrum." She looks at you hopefully.

"That's… oddly romantic," you tease, but you keep your distance lest you're reading too much into things again. That's a bad habit of yours.

She reaches out a hand to stroke your face. The palm of her hand is warm, calloused. She's asking you permission.

Well.

How can you say no?


End file.
